


9 Kisses

by northerntrash



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Gen, M/M, New Years countdown, New York Times 9 Kisses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-03 03:15:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2835947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/northerntrash/pseuds/northerntrash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nine short and silly oneshots to count down to the new year: including arm wrestling, flying hats, and awkward dates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kili/Tauriel: New Years

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the New York Times' [9 Kisses](http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2014/12/10/magazine/this-years-best-actors-in-9-kisses.html#seeall).
> 
> [Kiss #1](http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2014/12/10/magazine/this-years-best-actors-in-9-kisses.html#video/cumberbatch-witherspoon). Kili/Tauriel

There was distant music in the air, some half-heard melody, and Kili sighed, shoulders slumping in the slightly uncomfortable suit that he was wearing. It had been one of the worst parties that he had ever had the misfortune to attend, despite the flowing alcohol and the busy rooms – there were too many people he didn't know, and nowhere near enough friendly laughter for his tastes. His Uncle knew that Kili would grow bored eventually, and so had given him permission to slip away after he had shown his face, and he had been planning on doing so when _she_ had appeared.

He didn’t know her name; he wasn’t even entirely sure what she looked like, but by god, had she been beautiful.

That was the problem with masquerade balls, he thought to himself as he slumped against the wall outside the manor, stubbing out the butt of his cigarette with his shoe. Meet a lovely girl, but the next day you could pass her in the street, and not realise that they were one and the same.

Most of the guests had been wearing elaborate but dainty lacy affairs, held to their eyes on elegant sticks, or else pinned into their hair. Thorin’s had been rather entertaining, a great beaked plague doctor mask that Kili was quite certain Bilbo must have picked out, and was probably laughing hysterically at from behind his flute of champagne. Their Uncle's partner had picked Fili and Kili’s, too, though theirs were just plain columbina-style masks, Fili’s a dark red and Kili’s a navy blue, to match the bow ties that had been quite pointedly left in their rooms.

 _She_ had been wearing a mask that looked more like a bandit costume’s accessory than anything else, and a short, elegant cape around her shoulders had only completed the look. Her hair had fallen in a wave down her back, catching the shine of the candlelight so that it looked almost liquid, a deep and firey auburn.

She had appeared quite suddenly at his side, and he had been utterly captivated. Her eyes never quite seemed to settle on him as they spoke, flickering instead from one end of the room to the other, as if searching for something that he could not see, looking perhaps for something beyond the shallow conversation and insincere smiles of his Uncle’s business event.

Or perhaps he was simply romanticising their brief encounter: he had watched her every movement with a fascination he had never felt before, but when he had turned his gaze away for just a moment, to watch Thorin’s toast, she had disappeared, and had not returned.

And now it was midnight, and he had stayed far longer than he had meant to, just in case she came back.

He swore at his own idiocy under his breath, and fumbled for another cigarette.

There was a flash of blue from the light from a police car, somewhere outside the garden, and he glanced up just in time to see a flicker of movement from beyond the hedgerows. His eyes strained in the dark to catch sight of what he had seen, but after a moment he relaxed, some inexplicable warmth bursting in his chest as those shadows materialised into a figure, dressed all in black; a cape wrapped around a tightly tailored black blouse and trousers, the flash of pale skin at her neck tantalising.

“Hello again,” he said, perhaps a little quieter than the situation really warranted, and smiled. “I thought you had gone.”

She was just a touch taller than him even without heels, her legs long and toned, but Kili found his eyes drawn to her eyes; it was too dark to tell what colour they were, but they reflected the Christmas lights strung in the trees, and all of a sudden his mouth was quite dry as she took another step closer.

“I should have,” she replied, and her voice was a little harried, as if she were slightly out of breath. “I really should have left already, but…”

And then her hands were cupping his face, gentle but not quite as soft as he had expected, and she was kissing him, her lips cool in the winter air but firm, coaxing it into something deeper, something almost tender.

Her waist was slender under his touch, but there was a certain firmness about her that spoke of strength rather than frailty, and he pulled her just a little closer.

Her hair was quite as soft as he had thought it might be, and he wrapped it around his other hand, careful not to pull on the thick coil of it.

Her tongue was warm as it flicked against his lower lip, and he shuddered.

From somewhere in the distance came a low hum, but it soon grew louder, some helicopter overhead, though Kili only really registered the sound when a searchlight appeared quite suddenly, dancing across the garden.

She pulled away, and for a moment he tried to follow her lips, but she shook her head.  

“I’ll see you soon, Kili,” she said, her voice a whisper against his ear, her breath warm against his cheek, and then she was gone, as quickly and as silently as she had appeared, and he barely had time to register that the police must have been looking for _her_ before he was calling after her, trying to keep his voice as low as possible as the searchlight grew closer.

“I don’t even know your name!” he hissed into the darkness as she disappeared, and a ringing laugh was his reply. For that matter, how did she know his?

No name came with that laughter, but a little while later, when he finally got back to his room, he found a slip of paper in his jacket pocket, a phone number written on it in an elegant and looping hand, alongside a single letter – a ‘T’.

(“I’m in love,” he told his brother the next day, when Fili asked him why he had spent the last hour staring besotted into his now-cold coffee. Fili just shook his head in disbelief, and left his brother to it, muttering under his breath about how utterly useless every member of his family ended up whenever there was a pretty face involved.)


	2. Fili/Sigrid: Valentines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Kiss #2](http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2014/12/10/magazine/this-years-best-actors-in-9-kisses.html#video/carell-dern). Fili/Sigrid

Fili was beginning to regret laughing at his brother.

Sure, it had been funny and a little frustrating watching him moon over the mystery bandit girl that Kili had met at Thorin’s New Year’s party like some kind of lovelorn teenager, but he definitely should not have laughed so hard. It was an older brother’s right to tease, he knew that, but if Kili ever found out about tonight then he was never going to let Fili forget about it, and right now, that was all that he really wanted to do.

It had been a moment of slightly drunken madness that had prompted him to ask out Bard’s daughter. Sure, he might have always had a little bit of a soft spot for her, but he did for all of Bard’s kids – he’d babysitted the younger ones on a couple of occasions (and there was no way in hell that he was willing to admit that sometimes he agreed to help out because it meant that he might run into Sigrid).

Because that definitely wasn't true. At all.

She would usually be heading out herself, perhaps going with her father or to work, out with friends or to study, and he would only get to see her for a moment in passing in the hall, but sometimes she would get back before Bard and the two of them would have a cup of tea in the kitchen, and she’d tell him about the sketches she drew in her attic bedroom, and how her studies were going, and would flush prettily when he told her that he was sure they were beautiful, that she would end up with more qualifications than she knew what to do with, with that mind of hers.

Okay, so maybe he had a _little_ bit of a crush on her. But it was hard not to, when her hands curled so delicately around her mug, when her nose had a spray of freckles that just begged to be touched, when she was so hard working and yet still so quick to laugh, when…

Okay, so maybe it wasn’t just a little bit of a crush.

But the point was he had been doing a fine job of ignoring it and keeping it well hidden from his inquisitive family, and then he had gone and run into her in a bar, out with her friends for Valentine’s day (how was she single?)  and he wasn’t in her kitchen anymore, where the presence of her protective father loomed over Fili’s shoulder even when he wasn’t in the house. He’d had one too many beers and she’d been laughing with her friends, in a black dress with a back that swooped so low that he had to curl his hands in fists to stop them wanting to stroke down the length of her spine.

So he’d asked her if she’d like to go on a date, and at the time alcohol had made him relatively smooth, and to his surprise she had said yes, and things had been looking pretty good until, well…

Until the date itself.

Because they had spoken so often, but this evening had been so awkward, right from the moment he had picked her up. Their conversation had been stilted over dinner, uncomfortably difficult over coffee and dessert, and now they were walking home in silence, and Fili was kicking himself, because obviously she hadn’t _actually_ wanted to go on a date with him, she just hadn’t known how to turn him down without hurting his feelings, and damn it all but she was perfect, and he was fucking this up, and-

“Come here,” she said, her voice quiet in the still night air, and he started in surprise. She’d veered from the path to a small bench, tucked just out of the glare cast by the street lights, and was taking a seat before he took a step in her direction, to join her.

It didn’t help: now they were sat in awkward silence, rather than walking, and he caught her eyes as he watched her in profile, the line of her nose, the soft curve of her lip.

He looked away, suddenly convinced that he was blushing, despite the February chill, opening his mouth to apologise, but she too made a noise as if to speak, and they cut each other off.

Their eyes met again, and she smiled at him, gently, and he cursed anyone who might have been listening that _this,_ this evening, had not gone the way that he had wanted, because right now all that he wanted was-

He was still looking at her, he realised, but she was still looking back, and there was a blush just faintly flushing across her cheeks.

And then, too quickly for him to realise what had happened, he had a lap full of her and she was kissing him, her mouth hot as she tilted his head back, deep and fierce and so full of the passion that he had always suspected was there, underneath her calm surface, and his hands were around her and damn it all that spring hadn’t come yet, her coat was too bulky to hold her properly but he had just about enough wits left about him not to push too hard and slip his hands underneath, and then almost as quickly as it had ended she was sitting back next to him, panting and definitely red-cheeked now, and _so damn beautiful._

“Sorry,” she muttered, and Fili swallowed, before shaking his head rapidly.

“Nope,” he managed, before he realised that he was still shaking his head. “Can we, maybe, try this again?”

And then she was smiling properly, the same way that she always had when she was making tea in the kitchen for them both, and tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear, nodding at him; all those nerves that had kept him awkward and tense all evening seemed suddenly to melt away, and he leant in, slowly, to press another kiss to her mouth, gentle and sure.

(Thankfully Kili was far too busy waxing lyrical over Tauriel’s hair to notice Fili’s rather gormless expression when he got in, but Thorin did, and had seemed about to say something when Bilbo elbowed him in the side and reminded him, quite firmly, that he had been no better. Fili really didn’t want to know about any of that, so he had excused himself quite quickly, throwing himself into his bed with a groan and a smile.)


	3. Bilbo/Thorin: St Patrick's Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Kiss #3](http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2014/12/10/magazine/this-years-best-actors-in-9-kisses.html#video/dawson-slate). Bilbo/Thorin
> 
> and it's Bagginshield for Christmas. Have a good one, everyone!

“I still don’t understand why we celebrate St Patrick’s Day,” Bilbo huffed, wrapping his scarf a little more firmly around his neck to keep out the cool March air. It had been a long winter, and was only just starting to ease into the slightly warmer weather of spring: from beside him Thorin just nodded, as he did every year.

“Because Vivi is Irish,” he replied, and took Bilbo’s hand.

“Yes well,” Bilbo said, a little grumpily. “We’re _English,_ and we never celebrate St George’s Day.”

Thorin never had a decent reply to that, and these days didn’t even bother trying.

“Family tradition,” he used instead, knowing that Bilbo would always cave to that.

He’d always wanted a big family, and now the poor man had ended up with Thorin’s, and all the related and unnecessary celebrations that went with it.  

“At least you finally got to meet these girls,” Thorin said gently, as Bilbo continued to scowl beside him, though his frown had lessened, just a little.

“That is true,” Bilbo replied, a little thoughtfully. “They were darling, weren’t they? And the boys are utterly smitten.”

Now it was Thorin’s turn to scowl.

“Just why does Fili have to date _Bard’s_ daughter?” he asked, and it was his voice that had turned grumpy at the new conversation topic, not Bilbo’s. “And Kili- she seems a sweet enough thing, but she’s a damn _undercover police officer._ ”

“It’s better than a criminal, which is what we all thought she was at first,” Bilbo said, taking Thorin’s hand in his as they walked together down the dark street: in the distance was the sound of the last few revellers who were only now vacating the bar as it closed, and he was in no doubt that their nephews would be among them. It seemed that he and Thorin were finally getting old, though – he remembered his first St Patrick’s Day with the Durin’s like it was only yesterday, downing lurid green shots whilst Dis downed a pitcher, but these days it was more of a couple of glasses of wine, a whiskey, and a watch the others make a fool of themselves sort of affair. But it was nice, though, watching the boys bring new people into their family, gently teasing them as he had been teased when it was Thorin who was introducing him.

“And I still don’t understand what you have against the fact that Tauriel is a police officer,” he said, smiling a little to himself as he remained caught up in his nostalgia. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with that.”

“Of _course_ not,” Thorin replied, sounding a little tetchy. “But she’s going to be out on night shifts and doing dangerous work and on assignments for months at a time and there will _always_ be the fear that she won’t come back, and-”

“Ah,” Bilbo cut across, squeezing Thorin’s hand. “You old worrywart, you. Kili’s a big boy, he can look after himself.”

The look on Thorin’s face seemed to disagree with that, but he huffed a sigh, and squeezed back.

“You’re a daft old thing,” Bilbo told him, the corners of his mouth curling up a little. “A lovely, daft old thing.”

“I don’t know why you put up with me,” Thorin answered, his voice a little gruff but his eyes bright, and Bilbo tilted his head to one side, as if considering. But before he could reply they turned a corner and they were, quite suddenly, not alone: a man with silver shot through his hair was propped up against one of the parade cars, and he grinned when he saw how close the pair of them were walking, their tightly held hands.

“Cheaper’an a taxi,” he said, tilting his head in the direction of the open topped cars. Bilbo could almost feel Thorin about to shake his head, and he wasn’t sure if it was the strange sense of nostalgia or the sudden sensation of being old, but he laughed aloud.

“Go on then,” he said. ”It’s only a couple of streets.”

“Bilbo,” Thorin hissed, but he pulled his partner in after him even as the driver jumped behind the wheel, and sat not on the seats but on the back of them, as he had seen so many people do in parades.

There was leftover green confetti from the parade caught in and around the car: as they started up they caught the breeze, and fluttered madly around him.

Thorin, sat properly on the seats, was shaking his head as he looked at Bilbo, and smiling a little at the same time.

“No wonder they call you Mad Old Baggins,” he said, and Bilbo grinned.

He held his arms out to Thorin, and the other man shook his head but came up anyway, twisting a little, to meet Bilbo’s mouth in a kiss; Bilbo was half laughing at him still, his smile still stealing across his face, and Thorin tugged him as he licked his way into Bilbo’s mouth, suddenly feeling very young and quite ridiculous.

He’d kissed Bilbo hundreds of times – possibly thousands – but right now he could have been twenty four and stupid again, half-in-love with the man who’d just moved in across the hall from him, only a couple of years younger than Thorin but already wearing waistcoats and an amused air of civility; he could have been twenty five and finally kissing that man again, up against the wall of their apartment building in the middle of a fire alarm, the klaxon an unromantic but barely heard background din, Bilbo’s mouth as warm and soft against his as it still was now, all these years later.

He had been aiming to get a lap full of Bilbo, but instead the pair of them half-fell back into the car, and even he was forced to laugh at that: Bilbo took Thorin’s head in his hands and kissed him again, and he couldn’t quite stop himself from smiling.  

(Bilbo had been right when he had said that Thorin had been as useless as his nephews when they had first met: Dwalin had tried on more than one occasion to get some sense into Thorin’s skull, and still huffed with some satisfaction that he was the reason that Thorin had finally broken and kissed Bilbo, that night – though he pulls just as many faces as Fili and Kili when Thorin turns that besotted, useless expression onto his partner.)


	4. Dwalin/Ori: May Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies, boxing day ran right away with me!
> 
> [Kiss #4](http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2014/12/10/magazine/this-years-best-actors-in-9-kisses.html#video/boseman-stewart). Dwalin/Ori

“Go on Ori,” Nori hissed, trying hard to disguise his laughter. “Go on, you lost the bet.”

Nori’s younger brother tried his hardest to glare at him, but as he’d been plied with more than a few drinks that night (and god forbid Dori ever found out about the way he had _actually_ spent this May bank holiday, rather than holed up at university studying like he had claimed) it came out weaker than he intended: possibly more like a constipated kitten than anything else.

He couldn’t quite remember why he had thought that challenging Nori to a drinking challenge was a good idea. It certainly didn’t seem like one right now, the stage at the corner of the pub in the corner of his vision, impossible to avoid.

“Go _on!_ ” Nori urged again, and his eyes were perhaps just a touch too wide: he’d had as much to drink tonight as Ori had, and though he was better at holding his liquor than his younger brother, he had definitely had too much. He never would have dared his brother to jump up on stage and kiss the rather handsome violin player stood in the corner, accompanying the folk band that had been keeping a pleasant background sound up for the last couple of hours – plenty of time for Nori and Ori both to catch sight of him, and his very attractively muscular arms. Not to mention those tattoos, and the rather gorgeous scar running across his forehead.

Ori gulped.

The bar was full of Nori’s friends, none of which he knew, and he was drunk enough to almost, _almost_ think that it was a good idea.

He looked back down at the small, sticky table that lay between him and his brother.

Somehow another row of shots had materialized in front of him, though he wasn’t entirely sure how or when it had.

Oh, sod it.

He couldn’t be the good little student that Dori wanted him to be _all_ of the time, anyway.

One by one, to the crowing laughter of his brother, he downed the row in front of him.

The liquor burnt his throat and he was forced to cough, a hand over his mouth, before he stood back decisively, the chair squeaking loudly across the floor, making enough noise that several of Nori’s friends cheered at the sight of him. Most of them had known him in one way or another since Ori was still in shorts and Dori’s home-knitted jumpers (he wouldn’t admit here that Dori still knitted them, and he still cuddled up in them on winter days) and Nori had been a rowdy teenager bringing home inappropriate friends, much to their mother’s irritation, and they were more than happy to see him let down his hair a little.

“Go on, lad!” cheered Bofur, whose hat was looking as shabby as it ever had, though his grin was one of the nicest and brightest that Ori had ever seen.

The folk band wound down to the end of their song, the violin player drawing out one last, sweet note as Ori approached the short stage, pushing through the small crowd of slightly drunken dancers and hovering for a moment as the band paused, taking a drink of water and fiddling with their instruments for a moment between songs. The singer glanced at him in curiosity, a blonde haired man with a lip ring who must have been about the same age as the violin player, as attractive in his own way but certainly not the focus of Ori’s attention.

His biceps flexed as he reached for his bottle of water, and he took a long drink as Ori watched.

He swallowed, resolve faltering for just a moment, before he hopped up onto the stage.

It was a long moment before anyone thought to react, long enough for Ori to step lightly over the low lights set along the edge, step quickly over the wire that connected the microphone to its amp, grab hold of the collar of the violin player’s flannel shirt and pull him down into a hard, bruising kiss.

His mouth was surprisingly soft, but unresponsive; he was frozen in surprise as Ori kissed him, long and hard, pushing the man back against the wall despite how much bigger than Ori he was; the man’s shoulders were broader than the span of Ori’s hands, he was quite sure, and had this perhaps been a different situation he might have liked to explore them, but already he felt a blush growing up the base of his throat as he heard Nori whooping in delight from behind him.

He pressed that kiss for one more second, and he was already pushing back when he felt, for just the slightest moment, the violin player start to kiss back.

He let go, stepped back, and _beamed_.

It was a wide smile, almost cheeky, and not at all like the way that he usually smiled at people: normally it was a timid thing, almost shy, but right now he looked positively delighted.

“Sorry!” he called out, before grinning again, and jumping down from the stage, running back to his brother with his face hot at the friendly laughter that was coming from all sides.

(Nori looked positively proud of his baby brother; Bofur delivered another round of drinks to the table, ruffling Ori’s hair as soon as his hands were free - he tried his hardest to mess up Nori’s too, though he ducked out of the way just in time. On the stage, Frerin slapped Dwalin’s shoulder, his lip ring catching the light with a flash. Dwalin looked a little embarrassed, but he was shaking his head, something of a smile on his face anyway.)


	5. Bofur/Nori: Summer Storms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Kiss #5](http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2014/12/10/magazine/this-years-best-actors-in-9-kisses.html#video/arquette-schwartzman). Bofur/Nori
> 
> Second update of the day, because I am trash. :)

The summer had been a long and dry one, but somewhere in the distance there was the rumble of thunder: the clouds overhead were a tumultuous grey for the first time in weeks, bruised and angry looking. The pavements were still warm though it was well into the evening, and though it was late the long days meant that there was still the hint of the sunset even now, after a long and lazy Saturday afternoon, only a little subdued by the clouds.

Nori turned his face up to the sky, a little dizzy from the afternoon spent drinking with Bofur, and grinned as he felt the first stirrings of a breeze against his face.

It had been a hot, slow summer, and the earth felt parched: he longed for rain, for something to break the incessant heat, and it seemed that he might finally see it that night.

“What are you staring at, you daft bugger?” Bofur called, shaking his head from a few steps ahead of him, completely ruining the moment. Nori scowled at him, turning his face away from the promising sky.

“Oh, shut up, you old drunk,” he replied, though his voice lacked enough sting to make it sound as if he really meant it. Bofur just sent him a cheery grin instead, and then stuck his tongue out.

“Only as old as you.”

“Rubbish,” Nori replied, “I’m not a day over eighteen, in here.” He tapped his chest with one long finger, the long day of drinking and the sudden potential of a storm making him feel almost silly. Bofur was one of the few people that he could ever feel truly relaxed around, and as if to punctuate that thought, his friend dipped into a deep bow, only a little teasing.

“Of course!” he cried, as the wind began to pick up. “You’ll never be a day over.”

It was Nori’s turn to shake his head at him then, and he caught up to Bofur quickly, his steps wavering just a little. The evening was darkening quickly: it would probably be properly night by the time that they managed to stagger back to their respective houses, not all that far from each other.

“I don’t know how the hell you’re still wearing that ridiculous hat,” Nori said, almost scowling. “When it has been this bloody warm.”

Bofur just laughed, rubbing at the top of that hat with the palm of one hand. He glanced at Nori out of the corner of his eye, and something that Nori had never quite explored flickered in his chest, warm and comfortable in its familiarity.

“I’m acclimatised,” Bofur claimed, and Nori snorted in reply.

The wind was stronger now, and cooler, and felt as if it were already about to blow the cobwebs away.

“Nothing like a good summer storm,” Bofur said, idly, bumping their shoulders together, and Nori nodded, glancing around them. The wind picked up a couple of stray leaves just as Nori grabbed hold of Bofur’s hand, dragging him across the road and into the nearby park, shadowy under the leaves and a shortcut to home: the long auburn braid of Nori’s hair swung behind him as he dropped Bofur’s hand and danced ahead, his feet light against the path, the overgrown branches of a shrub clinging to him for a moment or too.

He could feel the drag of them against his shirt, and he twisted to pull them off, but at that moment the wind suddenly gusted, strong and chill with the damp of an oncoming storm, and another roll of thunder came across the city, a little closer now before: at the same moment Bofur’s hat blew off his head, his hair messy and pulled back into a ponytail underneath it, landing almost exactly at Nori’s feet.

Bofur followed him as Nori bent to pick it up, moving just a little too close as he straightened up again, the hat safely in his hands. It was strange, he had known Bofur for years, but right now Nori wasn’t entirely certain that he had ever actually held it before: it was surprisingly soft.

He glanced up, and Bofur was watching him, a flicker of something warm and uncertain in his gaze, his eyes gentle.

Nori swallowed, and Bofur’s eyes darted down, following the movement of Nori’s throat.

He’d never really been lost for words around Bofur before, and he suddenly found himself unable to move away.

It was too warm, the wind a strange contrast against his skin, and he could feel the heat of Bofur’s body from here.

Then Bofur was leaning just a little closer, his hat pressed between them, and Nori watched his eyelids lowering for just a moment before they opened fully again, looking across at Nori.

The air between them was strangely electric, and Nori had no idea whether he wanted to stop, or carry on: just a little further, or just a little further away. It wouldn’t be difficult, whichever he chose.

The first drop of rain fell against his cheek, another on his shoulder, felt through the thin cotton of his shirt.

Then all of a sudden Bofur was kissing his nose, already smiling again, and he was too close for Nori to see what kind of smile it really was: he grabbed hold of the hat from between them and jammed it back on his head as he darted away, calling back over his shoulder as the rain began to fall around them, heavy and warm in the summer evening.

“Come on, Nori!” he cried, and they might have been eighteen again, young and daft.

It had been a great many years since Nori had really been that young, but right now he found himself smiling again.

He was practically _old_ now, with responsibilities that they had never had before now, but he found himself laughing, breaking into a pelting run to chase after his old friend, the roll of thunder above them, and the air fresh with the falling rain.

(Then fell in a soaking heap on the floor of Bofur's living room some moments later, no dryer for their mad dash but distinctly out of breath and feeling their age: Nori was quite unable to bring himself to be properly disappointed that nothing more had happened between them as he wheezed, his head pillowed on Bofur's stomach as he tried his hardest not to laugh. They had been friends for a very, very long time, after all.)


	6. Nori/Dwalin: September Strength

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Kiss #6](http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2014/12/10/magazine/this-years-best-actors-in-9-kisses.html#video/oyelowo-spall).Nori/Dwalin.
> 
> One day I will write a proper Nwalin fic, and you poor buggers will learn how emotional I get over them.

The next time Nori spent a long day at the pub, he decided not to drink: he’d made more than enough daft decisions in that summer than any man quite had a right to, and he was more than content to sit back and sip an orange juice for a night.

After all, it just meant that he was able to remember most of the ridiculous antics he and his friends got up to, and he had never needed alcohol to have a good time: sometimes, it just made things even better.

The regular folk band had been playing again, and Nori tipped a cheeky wink at the attractive violin player that he had dared Ori to kiss, only to see the man blush quite vividly at the sight, clearly recognising Nori. They played a particularly good set that night, to the rousing applause of their audience, and more than one audience member bought them a round when they were done, passing around pints and measures of whisky in turn, until the lead singer was almost yelling dirty limericks from his rather shaking seat on the bar.

Nori sat back, trying his hardest not to laugh as the singer – Frerin, he’d introduced himself as at some point – was distracted from his latest song by another overheard conversation.

“You think _you’re_ strong?” he said, slurring a little, reaching over to slap the shoulder of that very same violin player. “S’nothing on my cousin, he’s got arms as big as bloody _sheep._ ”

Dwalin, perhaps not as drunk as his cousin, stared at him in bemusement at that particular phrasing, but before he could say anything more Bofur’s voice piped up from somewhere near the bar, not quite as slurred as Frerin’s but not entirely sober, either.

“Bloody big arms, but _Nori’s_ the strongest man I’ve ever met,” he called out, and Frerin wheeled around in his bar stool, squinting at Bofur, who was waving in his friend’s direction. Frerin’s eyes turned then instead to Nori, who raised his orange juice in a mock salute.

Dwalin flexed his arms meaningfully, and Nori quirked a grin.

Oh, this would be _fun._

“Come on then, big boy,” he grinned, placing his elbow on the table and kicking out the chair opposite him, only recently vacated by another friend. There were enough people in here who’d seen this game before to laugh, but luckily it didn’t blow his cover: Frerin crowed in delight as Dwalin strode over, cracking his knuckles in what could have been threatening, but really only made him appear all the more attractive.

Nori cricked his neck, tossing his long braid over one shoulder.

“Bring it on,” he grinned, and if it was a touch challenging, well. Who could blame him?

Dwalin scowled, the scar across his face tightening, placing his own elbow across from Nori and stretching out his fingers. Nori was quick enough to take his hand, but not before he picked up the shot glass that Bofur had put at his elbow, downing the water inside it quickly and with a grimace.

“He’s been on vodka all night,” one friend whispered loudly to Bofur, “in that orange juice. He aint steady.”

Bofur tugged on one side of his moustache, squaring his shoulders, and turned to Frerin, staggering a little to one side as he did.

“Twenty quid on Nori!” he said, with a grin, and Frerin was quick to nod.

“You’re on!” he replied, his voice loud.

Dwalin’s hand was cool in his, the callouses on his palm rough but not unpleasantly so.

It was on: Dwalin really was bloody strong, Nori realised quite quickly, but he’d have to put on enough of a show to make the act convincing. He fought as well as he could against the strength of those biceps, pulling exaggerated wincing faces as he did.

“Fifty quid!” he heard Frerin call, just as Dwalin began to press Nori’s hand close to the table surface.

He wasn’t looking, but he could almost imagine the concerned faces that Bofur would be pulling, no doubt a touch exaggerated after the beer he’d hand, but convincing enough to someone who had had as many as he had.

He began to turn as he fought against Dwalin’s grip, his head turning to one side, and Dwalin was just starting to grin (and wasn’t that a good look on him?) when Nori darted forward, pressing a slightly sloppy kiss against Dwalin’s mouth, humming appreciatively when his lips parted in surprise and his grip loosened, just enough for Nori to slam Dwalin’s fist against the table.

Dwalin pulled back, looking just a little shell shocked.

From near the bar came Frerin’s groan, followed by a string of half-amused protests that did not sound entirely serious: Bofur was laughing, as were a number of their other friends, but Nori was just watching the man in front of him.

After a long, slow moment, his mouth curved into the very smallest of smiles, and he shook his head.

(Bofur was more than happy when Frerin paid up, as was the rest of the bar when the money just went on buying another round for their small group. Apparently the two of them were left singing and drinking until late into the night, though Nori had Dwalin had disappeared by that point: Dwalin heard all about it, however, the next day, when he returned home to find that the story had been spread to every one of his relatives. Fili and Kili in particular seemed highly amused that he had been so easily outwitted, and any other day that might have annoyed him. That particular day, though… well. He couldn’t quite bring himself to be bothered.)


	7. Fili & Kili: Halloween

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Kiss #7](http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2014/12/10/magazine/this-years-best-actors-in-9-kisses.html?_r=0#video/oconnell-woodley).Fili & Kili.

Kili only really had himself to blame, Fili thought with something of a frown across his features as he took another, harder swing at the padding his brother wore: they tended to train together three or four times a week, but Kili had been lazy for the last few days, stuffing his face with the Halloween sweets that had been meant for trick-or-treater, lounging around watching old horror films with Tauriel and making noises of protest every time Fili had tried to convince him to train. It had been eight days, and he had been feeling more and more of the restlessness that always tensed him up when he didn’t have a chance to get down to their local gym.

So if Fili was punching harder, his swings coming quicker than Kili was used to, more painful and more difficult for his younger brother to block, then that really was his own fault.

“C’mon, Fee,” his brother whined as the pair of them danced across the empty room in Dwalin’s gym, the slap of fists against leather loud in the quiet, Fili’s breath beginning to sound a little laboured. “That one _hurt._ ”

“Oh, shut up,” Fili retorted, with little actual venom. “Tauriel hits much harder than me, and you know it.”

Kili pulled a face at that: whilst he couldn’t deny that it was true, he wasn’t feeling particularly disposed to agreeing to his brother at the moment, not when Fili was putting him through such a lengthy and exhausting work out. There was a slight nausea from the chocolate bars he had eaten too close to exercising lingering, and he was starting to (grudgingly) admit that perhaps Fee had been right when he’d told him that trying to eat all of the sweets left in the bowl in the space of a week might not have been the best of ideas, particularly following a rather heavy Halloween party at Frerin’s (a much less formal and much more raucous affair than any of the business parties that Thorin was forced to hold throughout the year).

But he still wasn’t going to admit it.

“Oh, fine,” Fili said, with something of a huff, lowering his arms. “Switch over.”

Kili was not feeling particularly excited at the thought of sparring in turn, but he knew that Fili wouldn’t let him rest until he had his go, too: Fili balanced back on the balls of his feet, rocking a little, as he waited for Kili to raise his own arms.

His first few swings were slow, a little lethargic, and Fili scowled at him.

“C’mon,” he said, his voice a little teasing. “Put your back into it.”

Kili resisted the urge to stick his tongue out at his brother, but it was a close call.

“You’re never going to beat Thorin if you don’t work harder, you know,” Fili said next, and Kili picked up the pace a little: he had been sparring with his family since he was old enough to start, and it had long been a dream of his unrealised to beat his Uncle, even if they all only ever fought for fun, rather than anything else. He realised only as Fili grinned at him that his brother had pushed that button deliberately, and scowled.

That was the problem, with family: they knew the perfect way to wind you up.

“You’ve never beaten him either,” he reminded Fili, pausing for a moment to wipe beads of sweat from his forehead. “So you can’t really comment.”

“Aye,” Fili replied, “but I’ll get there a hell of a lot quicker if you don’t practise.”

Kili’s face was dark as thunder, and he pushed himself past his reluctance to spar and sped up even more, going quicker and quicker as Fili continued to dance in front of him, his footwork sure against the wooden boards. Quite suddenly though he lunged in the wrong direction to blog as Kili feigned a blow down to the left; instead he clipped his older brother neatly across the face, a little harder than he had intended.

“Arse!” Fili called, one side of his face cradled in his hands, the pair of them stopping. Kili rolled his eyes.

“I bet Sigrid can whack you quicker with her rolling pin,” he half-sang, mocking Fili’s own earlier teasing, but Fili just scowled at him, looking for all the world like the archetypal disappointed older brother.

“Baby,” Kili told him, as Fili continued to glare, his own hands falling down to his sides.

“Am not,” Fili retorted, and all of a sudden Kili couldn’t stop himself from grinning: they sounded exactly as they had done when they were younger and had been much more clumsy in their bouts – and it had been a while since he had managed to land such an impressive hit on his brother, whose swift footwork and reactions always left him one step ahead of the other.

Seized by a moment of slightly gleeful nostalgia, he leant in and pressed a kiss to his brother’s cheek, still grinning a little as he did so.

Fili stared at him for a moment, before shaking his head at his younger brother.

“Idiot,” he said, but now he was smiling too, barely able to stop himself, and Kili’s own grin only grew in reply. Before Fili could say anything more, Kili tried for another hit, but Fili was quick to block it: their pace grew quicker, more competitive now, but both of them were trying desperately hard to hold in their childish laughter.

(Shortly after, Fili ended up tacking Kili down onto the mats with a roar of triumph: Dwalin and Balin couldn’t see what was happening from outside the room, but they knew the pair of them well enough just to shake their heads fondly. Balin couldn’t resist a low, short laugh, but Dwalin just rolled his eyes at _his_ older brother in turn.)


	8. Dori/Balin: Bonfire Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Kiss #8](http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2014/12/10/magazine/this-years-best-actors-in-9-kisses.html?_r=0#video/lithgow-moore).Dori/Balin.
> 
> I think this is the one I've altered the most... mostly because I find the nyt version really quite creepy?

The bonfire was still burning, though it was more ember than licking flame now, a warm glow in the dark evening. It was a clear night, and chilly, the best sort of weather to celebrate Bonfire Night, though the remnants of their great fire was still throwing off enough heat that, coupled with the rather large quantities of whiskey that had been drunk, coats were still not needed.

This wasn’t a place that Balin was particularly familiar with – it was more a haunt of Dwalin and Frerin, who had apparently played in this pub several times in the last year – but he had come along anyway, because the rest of his family were, and because he was more than a little curious at the way that the tips of Dwalin’s ears turned red every time Frerin mentioned their _fans,_ and _arm wrestling._ He was quite certain that there was a story there, just waiting to be discovered.

He had expected a pleasant enough evening – good company, some decently priced drinks, and the fireworks display that was being set off on the field on the other side of the river that the pub’s gardens backed on to, and in all of those ways it had delivered – he had also had the pleasure of watching not just Dwalin’s ears, but the rest of his face too, turn hot with a flush when a man with a long auburn braid had tipped him a wink from the other side of the garden, where he was lounging with a motley group of individuals.

What he hadn’t expected, was Dori.

How long had it been, since they had last seen each other?

Twenty years? Twenty five?

He was as beautiful as he had ever been, his strong arms no smaller for age, his hair a silver that caught the light from the embers of the fire, his face perhaps a little more gentle than it had been when he was younger for the lines that had crept across it. Different, but Balin thought that he would have recognised him anywhere.

He knew quite well that he had not aged anywhere near so successfully: his own hair was simply grey, his expression tired, but he supposed that it what he got, from staying on in the army when Dori had chosen to leave. They’d said they would stay in touch, of course, but what they were had never really been clarified or solidified: Dori had flown back home without any promises being exchanged between them, and after a while their correspondence had become less and less frequent, eventually faltering altogether.

He was the only man that Balin had ever loved, but he had not regretted letting Dori go, at the time. The other man had brothers to look out for, a life at home that needed him, and Balin didn’t want to tie the man down, not when Balin could never promise that he would come home. Times had been different then, too, less accepting than they were now – there would have been no chance of Dori being treated like the spouses of soldiers, given a pension and some measure of security: only disapproval, at the very least.

It had been over two decades since Balin had seen him last, but the sight still struck him, something hot and tight twisting in his chest, making him feel like that young and foolish soldier he had once been, half-mad with love and the fear that any day might be their last, stepping out each day shoulder-to-shoulder with the greatest thing that he had ever been blessed to call his own, even if it had only been for a short time.

Dori had caught his eye, and he had recognised Balin, too.

It took an hour or so – and this was back when the bonfire was still blazing bright – for them to end up next to each other at the bar, and if it had been stilted for a moment at first, the awkwardness had eased as soon as their different bartenders had returned with their drinks – even now, they still drank the same whiskey as each other, and they had laughed at that.

“What have you been doing?” Dori had asked, and Balin hadn’t known what to reply.

 _Waiting,_ was on the tip of his tongue, but he had swallowed it down quickly. _Waiting, though I have never been quite sure what I was waiting for._

Balin was shocked to realise that the auburn-braided man was actually Dori’s brother – he had just been a young child grinning a gap-toothed smile in a photograph when Balin had known them, and Ori hadn’t even been born. Dori laughed when he realised just how large Balin’s own, scrawny kid brother had grown, who had been all awkwardly long limbs and skinny knock-knees all those years back.

Their conversation hadn’t faltered, as the bonfire burnt low, and for once both of their respective families left them alone, unsure of what connected the pair of them, but seemingly unwilling to interrupt; they shared more whiskey, and the hot, blackened-skinned baked potatoes cooked on the edges of the fire. They watched the Guy turn to ash, and the stars come out in the clear sky, and sat until most of the revellers retired to inside the pub where it was warmer.

It felt oddly _normal_ , considering the long years they had spent apart; the glow of the fire kept the edges of their older faces soft, and lit them with a strange intimacy. Dori ran a fingertip along the long scar that ran down Balin’s forearm, just as the band inside began to play; Balin could recognise the sound of his brother’s music anywhere, and smiled as Dori stood, and offered him a hand.

He followed, without question.

It had been years since he had danced, too, but he did it now, letting Dori sway them gently from side to side, and he closed his eyes against the smell of burning wood and the whiskey on their breath, against the sudden and impossibly painful swell in his chest, against the hazel eyes that were watching him – he had almost forgotten the colour of them, in all these years, and it struck him like a blow to realise that.

And then someone was calling Dori’s name from inside, and he was drawing away from Balin’s arms with a low murmur that might have been discontent. Dori didn’t let go of Balin’s hand though, not for a moment: he raised it to his mouth first, and pressed a sweet and gentle kiss against his knuckles, slow and soft, the scrape of his neatly trimmed beard sending a shiver down Balin’s spine, quite involuntarily.

“I bought that tea shop,” he told Balin, his voice quiet against the crackle of burning wood. “The one on Albert Street, off the town centre. I work Mondays through to Fridays, and sometimes I take Wednesday afternoons.”

Balin just nodded, and Dori offered him one last smile, almost a little sad, before he turned to leave again.

It was over an hour before he came back inside to the pub. He simply sat for a long while, staring in the embers, remembering how Dori had always wanted to run a tea shop. Balin had teased him, when they were young and strong and curled up under canvas together, one ear always cocked in case someone were to come and find them. He’d told Dori that he would be his best customer, that he’d come in every day for tea, even though he didn’t like the stuff.

It’s hadn’t quite been an invitation, but then again there was no reason for Dori to have said anything at all.

He hadn’t had tea in years: perhaps it was one of those acquired tastes, which grew on you as you yourself became older.

Perhaps it was time for him to try it again.

(As it turned out, the rich blend of breakfast tea that he ordered was really quite palatable, though he found that he enjoyed the company a lot more.)


	9. Dis/Vivi: Boxing Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Kiss #9](http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2014/12/10/magazine/this-years-best-actors-in-9-kisses.html#video/mbatha-raw-teller). Dis/Vivi
> 
> Happy New Year, you lovely creatures. <3

“Do you ever regret it?” Dis asked, and her voice was quiet in the kitchen, everything around them suddenly still and silent in the aftermath of Christmas: the family had descended for a warm day of gifts and food, and now it was just the two of them, with the leftover turkey and the empty bottles of wine, the bin stuffed full of torn wrapping paper.

Vivi was washing up in the kitchen sink, scrubbing the harder stains that they had not put in to soak the day before. She paused, for a moment, and looked out of the kitchen window, down the length of their garden.

Perched on a bird feeder, a robin turned to look at her for a moment, cocking its head to one side.

They had had this conversation before, many times, over the years.

In many ways Dis was the more confident of the two of them, the one who needed less reassurance in all areas of their life: it had been Dis that had stroked Vivi’s back gently and told her that she _could_ leave her law firm and set up her own; it had been Dis that had promised her that Fili was going to be alright when he had caught pneumonia as a baby; it had been Dis who had stood firm when their best friend had died in a car crash. In every one of the small tragedies and moments of heartbreak that make up even the happiest of lives, which theirs had been, it had been Dis who had held her, who had convinced her that everything would be alright, Dis who had kept them firm on their path.

But at Christmas time, when it came up to their anniversary, she wavered, growing quieter and quieter over December, distracted by Christmas on the day. When the boys were younger perhaps she had felt that fear less, but now they were gone and after the big day it was just the two of them left in the house, with no one to distract Dis from the lingering memories of their own wedding day.

Well, not quite a wedding day, in the end.

Vivi had made it all the way up the aisle before she had turned away and run out the door.

Even that day, it had been Dis who had saved her.

Most women wouldn’t have been brave enough to chase after her. Dis had, always quick enough to catch her.

“What are you doing?” she had asked, their breath misting in the winter air of the town hall gardens, the branches of the trees skeletal above them. Vivi had only been able to rub her eyes across her eyes, trying to hold back the tears, her breath coming quicker and more painful, her chest as tight as it had ever been, panic etched into her expression as she tried desperately to control her fear.

“I _can’t,_ ” she’d told Dis. “I love you and I want to spend my life with you but I can’t do all…” she gestured back at the hall, at the buttonholes and the ribbons and the crowds, as all the fripperies of what should have been so simple.

She had been feeling as if she were about to faint from the moment she had been laced into her dress this morning, the dark shade of her skin so startling against the white of the fabric that it had taken her breath away, and not in the good way.

But Dis had just nodded, understanding in the way that she always had, and would continue to do for every year of their long and happy life together.

She just cupped Vivi’s face in her hands, and pulled her down to kiss her, gentle and soft.

“That’s alright,” she murmured against Vivi’s mouth, reassuring and sure. “We don’t need to do this.”

And they hadn’t – they had just gone home, the pair of them, and had gone on their honeymoon to wait until the gossip had died down. Dis had stroked her hands up and down Vivi’s arms soothingly every time she had begun to apologise again.

“You don’t need to,” she told her, every time. “You never need to apologise for doing something that you don’t want to do.”

And so the years had passed, the two of them together, and the boys had been born and had grown tall and strong and happy. The years had been good to them, but every time, around about now, Dis seemed to wonder if she hadn’t stopped Vivi from leaving altogether.

But Vivi leaned on Dis in every part of her life; she had no problem with returning the favour now.

She smiled at the robin, then reached for the tea-towel, drying her hands.

Dis stared up at her from where she was sat at the kitchen counter, the newspaper abandoned and barely-read in front of her. Vivi wondered if her own eyes had looked the same to Dis, all those years ago, on their wedding day; bright with fear and love.

She bit her lip, and shook her head.

“Never,” she promised Dis. “Not even for a day.”

The corner of Dis’ mouth curved up in a smile, and Vivi took the opportunity to kiss her, gently.

(Fili and Kili barged back into the house a few hours later, hear to raid the leftovers, only to find their mothers curled up asleep together on the sofa, Vivi’s hand still tangled in Dis’ hair from where it had been gently stroking, Dis’ cheek resting against the curve of Vivi’s breast. The boys stole the turkey plate, and snuck out silently, careful not to wake them.)

 


End file.
